


it's boyfriend material

by dhils



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Sharing Clothes, dudes being bros being pals, while taking Multiple for the team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 22:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17031309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhils/pseuds/dhils
Summary: To make matters a little worse, when they see a few of the guys in the lobby, Matt fakes a yawn, stretching his arms over his head. TheHanifinprinted across his back is blindly clear.





	it's boyfriend material

**Author's Note:**

> i've wanted to write these two for so long?? but also, i love the flames and they deserve nice things

_sad day_ , Matt texts him alongside a picture, and Noah isn’t really sure what he’s looking at because as far as visuals go, his entire screen is black. Apart from Matt’s caption. A part of him actually considers the chances of his phone being broken, which it isn’t. Because, yeah, he might be a little rough with it sometimes but he’s got a good heart. He’ll treat his devices with the respect they deserve.

He does shake it a little, just to troubleshoot. 

_what tf am i looking at_ , Noah types out, and pauses before adding an abundant amount of question marks. Just to really get the point across. 

_darkness. charcoal black. like my soul_ , matt sends, and then quickly follows it up with, _no im kidding, that’s my room lmao_

Noah rolls his eyes as he sends back, _what happened???_

 _black out i think. my neighbourhood is being weird, this might mean aliens?? stay tuned??_ shows up on his screen a second later, and another dark image backlit by his window. Noah thinks that might mean Matt doesn’t know how to use his flash, maybe. 

He tries to bite back a smile. _no i think it means. technical difficulties. come over i have light and a working heater_

 _double threat!_ Matt texts, followed by a few lightbulb emojis. He’s pretty sure that might be the first time he’s ever seen anyone use the lightbulb emoji in any context. Matt’s quirky like that. _okay i’ll b there and i’ll bring snacks;)_

 _ur a snack, no need_ , Noah texts him, and shuts his screen off to get up and power on his xbox. He might as well get started if Matt’s coming over. Their hangouts never stray much further than video games and food, nothing too special, but it’s still enough to hold his attention for longer than a few minutes. Noah takes that as a W.

When his doorbell rings a few minutes later, Matt’s standing there in a team issued Flames hoodie and a six pack tucked under his arm. “Hey, fucker,” he greets cheerfully, and side steps around Noah to practically throw the beer onto his coffee table.

“Great to see you again, you shit,” Noah says, shutting the door and locking out the cold breeze. It lingers for a minute after the lock clicks, and Noah tries not to shiver. “What would you do without me, honestly. Freeze to death?”

“Probably go to Monny’s,” Matt says dismissively, a big grin dancing across his face. And when Noah turns to look at him, he catches a glimpse of the five stitched into his arm. _One_ of the fives apparently, because he catches full view of the 55 stark against his bicep when Matt slumps down on the couch. “Why the fuck are you playing Battlefield one,” Matt says towards the TV, ignoring the incredulous look Noah is definitely giving him right now. He can feel the shock spreading across his own face.

“Because it’s—it’s a good game,” Noah says, and then, “why are _you_ wearing my hoodie? Where did you even get that? Did you ransack my closet?”

“I didn’t ransack shit,” Matt argues, looking down at his hoodie— _Noah’s_ hoodie—as if that’ll prove anything. “This is mine, are you blind? Buddy, I know you’re liking it in Calgary but you can’t start claiming my own clothes off my body.” 

“Get up,” Noah orders, walking over to him and tugging him off the couch. Matt makes a disconcerting noise and then goes on to make a joke, something about being manhandled, but all Noah can focus on is the very clear _Hanifin 55_ running vertically down the back. 

“Why would I wear your shit, I wouldn’t rep trash,” Matt says, frowning at him. 

“Is your number 55?” 

Matt blinks at him, and Noah twists the sleeve so Matt can more than clearly see the number, the _wrong_ number, sewn into the fabric of the sleeve. “When did you even get this? It’s literally new.” Noah asks, and Matt’s staring at him a little dumbly, mouth hanging open.

“I swear this was mine, like, a minute ago,” Matt says. “I got dressed in the dark, I didn’t know. And it’s _comfortable_.” 

“You’re stealing comfort from me,” Noah argues, sounding accusatory. “You’re a comfort thief! You shouldn’t even have this.”

“I got dressed in the dark,” Matt repeats, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks very set on doing anything but removing that hoodie, and Noah doesn’t usually want Matt to take his clothes off, but right now would be a good time for it to happen. Because, like, it’s his.

“I don’t care if you got dressed in the middle of the street, give it back, asshole.” 

“I have nothing else,” Matt says, sounding pleading. 

“Clothes-thieves don’t deserve shit,” Noah says. And he’s not actually going to make Matt give him the hoodie back right at this instant, he’s got enough Flames shit to build a fort with it, but that’s a really nice hoodie. 

Matt looks like he’s about to say something, pauses, and sits back down on the couch. “I’ll give it back,” he insists. “But I brought you beer, and I kinda deserve sympathy after being traumatized by my neighbourhood.”

Noah tries to keep his face stoned over, set into something less than unamused, but Matt’s already cracking and he’s never been able to say no to that grin. “Fine,” he says, nudging his foot with his own. “Move over so I can kick your ass in COD.” 

“We should play for the hoodie,” Matt suggests, and Noah sits down.

“You wanna keep the hoodie?”

“It’s basically a piece of memorabilia now,” he says, “We fought over it. That’s when you know it’s real.”

Noah does consider it for a minute, because something warm bubbles up in the pit of his stomach at seeing Matt happy and cozy in one of his hoodies, but, like. He hasn’t even _worn_ that one yet, which is the main reason he’s confused about it somehow leaving his possession. 

“I’m taking it back,” he says finally, and passes Matt a controller.

 

 

Showing up at a team dinner on time is almost as important as showing up to a practice on time, because Noah certainly knows about the people that are ruthlessly scratched for missing breakfasts, which is not only unfair but cruel. So, yeah, he tries his best to show up to dinners on time when he can. 

Which—at the moment, he very much isn’t. He’s not sure what happened, when he fell asleep on his couch watching the fucking Discovery Channel of all things, but floundering off the couch is enough to wake him up fully. Even if the narrator’s monotonous voice is still droning away on the TV. 

It’s somewhere near a sprint when he runs up to his bedroom and pulls out the first two things he can find, which is some shirt and jeans combo, Noah doesn’t really care, he’s going to be throwing a jacket overtop it anyways. This weather isn’t the kind of weather for him to go prancing around in short sleeves, for fuck’s sake. He’s never going to get used to Albertan winters and that’s really just a fact of life.

There’s a few texts on his phone screen when it blinks on, and Noah takes a quick glance at the messages he’s got from Jonny sitting brightly against his lock screen before rushing out the front door, pulling on a snapback as he locks up. 

Trying to read the 3 different iterations of Johnny telling Noah to hurry the fuck up while he’s trying to walk down the driveway to his car isn’t very fun, especially because he can feel the ice under his sneakers with every step he takes. One wrong move would mean a face plant and a shattered screen, which—right now, Noah’s phone is really his main concern but a busted nose would probably be bad too.

He makes it to the restaurant with about a minute to spare, maybe less. The clock on Noah’s dash is never right. 

He nearly falls into the front door of the place as he’s trying to get up the steps. Walking is a task, okay, shit doesn’t get any easier in winter.

Inside, it’s a lot warmer. Noah can breathe much more freely knowing that he doesn’t have a fire lit up under his ass to actually get here on time. But considering the judgmental look he catches lingering on Matt’s face, he was already on the brink of chatting shit about him. He can’t do that now. He doesn’t get to do it if Noah’s here with all his limbs intact _and_ on time. Fuck him.

“Fuck you,” Noah whispers, when he slides into the seat next to him. The guys don’t usually leave the seat next to Matt open, especially not for Noah. Not unless they want a fight starting up in the middle of dinner, but he won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

“I didn’t even do anything,” Matt says, but it’s through a smile, which is ten times as suspicious.

Matt watches him unzip his jacket, and Noah throws a snarky look his way, just to punctuate his point. “You were totally gonna start badmouthing me if I showed up, like, a second later. Talking about _where’s the petition to get him traded_ or something.”

“Me? Your best friend? I would never do that,” he says, fluttering his lashes at him in that feigned innocent way he’s come to master after all these years.

“I’m telling Jack,” he says, draping his jacket over the back of the chair. 

And, Noah’s just about ready for a normal night with the guys, but then, “Nice shirt, Hanny,” he hears someone say. And he knows it’s not Matt, because Matt doesn’t call him Hanny until he’s trying to get something out of him. So—

Eli is sitting across from him, chin propped up on the palm of his hand and the least innocent look growing on his face. Noah could very well confuse him for Matt if it wasn’t for, like, how gorgeous he is. 

“Thanks, I’ve got five more of these, if you want them,” Noah says, slumping back in his seat. He’s wearing one of the most standard shirts they get issued, it’s really nothing special. So, he doesn’t understand _why_.

“Do you?” Matt asks, and he’s grinning wildly next to him, which is not good. It never is. “Five more of that specific kind?”

“I swear to god, Matthew,” Noah says, suddenly very worried for his wellbeing. “What now? What is it. Is there a stain?” He looks down at his shirt and when he comes to no conclusion other than Eli very clearly trying to swallow his snickering, he glares at him, and then at Matt. “What.”

“It just looks really good on you,” Eli says, and occupies himself with his glass of water, turning to talk to Mark. He doesn’t respond to the practically wounded noise Noah makes, but he _does_ hear from Matt.

“You look good, nothing to worry about, happens to the best of us,” Matt says, and pats him on the back. Right where his nameplate should be. 

Oh.

He cranes his neck to look over his shoulder and sees no more than the briefest flash of a number one before everything else goes to shit. “Why didn’t you just tell me—“ Noah scrambles to retrieve his jacket right off the back of his chair, quickly pulling it on, and ignoring Matt’s laughter in his ear.

“What’s wrong?” Matt asks, twisting his mouth into a frown. There isn’t the briefest flash of actual sorrow anywhere across his face, so Noah doesn’t feel bad about kicking him under the table. 

Matt lets out and indignant yelp, and it apparently catches Eli’s attention again, because he starts trying to hide his smile in his glass of water. 

“I’m a disgrace to my family name,” Noah complains bitterly, and Matt wheezes.

“ _Your_ family name? If my dad ever found out I let you wear my things I’d be disowned. On the spot, without hesitation,” he says. 

“You wish I’d wear your things willingly,” Noah says, looking away from him as Sean starts recalling a story from the O. He doesn’t look back over at Matt for the rest of the story, but he can see the content look on his face from the corner of his eye, and Noah can’t even be mad.

 

 

It’s Noah’s fault mostly, when Matt’s got an open can of sprite in his hand and he trips over the bump in Noah’s rug. 

He’s not great at looking after his place. Like most of the twenty-something guys in the league, he’s not thinking about many things, but cleaning up after himself is certainly not one of them. 

He laughs, but that’s just because Matt over exaggerates the shit out of his fall, fake crying when he’s sprawled out on the ground and everything. So he doesn’t really feel guilty, not until Matt stands back up and the front of his shirt is almost completely soaked through.

Noah’s floor took a bit of a hit, too, but this is Matt, so, like, he doesn’t really care too much about the amount of soda he’s going to have to clean up off the ground. Not right now, at least. 

“Oh, shit,” Noah says, and feels a bout of laughter nearly rolling off the back of his tongue. He snorts, and Matt scoffs at him.

“Yeah, please laugh at my misery, you’re such a good friend,” Matt says, and pinches the front of his shirt, tugging it away from his chest. Which is also probably damp now and—Noah’s praying he doesn’t take his shirt off.

“Sorry, sorry,” Noah rushes out, a little breathless. “Do you need a change of clothes? I can grab you a shirt or something.” 

“Yeah, man. Thanks.” Matt almost sounds surprised, and Noah decides not to linger on it. Just because he isn’t sure if it’d be good for his own sanity. 

He sees Matt about to pull off his shirt and immediately beelines out of the room, calling out a quick, “Be right back!” 

And like, Noah’s seen Matt shirtless before, the locker room isn’t really the kind of place to leave things covered up. But there’s something especially different about it when they’re both together, alone. And Noah really doesn’t think he’d be great at suppressing any sort of feelings with Matt looking like _that_ in his living room. 

He doesn’t have to file too far through his closet to find a sweater he thinks will probably fit Matt, mostly because they’re both just about the same size. There’s a little adidas logo stitched to the front of it, so Noah suspects Matt’ll appreciate it a lot more than the Hurricanes shirt his eyes had landed on at first. 

“Here,” he mutters, pressing the sweater into Matt’s hands once he gets back. He’s trying his hardest to avoid looking right at his torso. It’d be great if he didn’t have to be within any sort of range of Matt’s fucking abs, actually—that would be fantastic. 

“You’re the best,” Matt says gleefully, and pulls it over the head. 

Noah tries to convince himself he’s imagining the way his stomach feels like it does a backflip, and turns his attention to the TV remote, scrolling through Netflix’s horror category. “I know,” Noah says, feeling the couch dip next to him when Matt sits down.

There’s still that sprite situation on the rug, but Noah guesses he’ll deal with it later. Because right now, Matt’s too close for him to want to move, and he’s just fine with spending the rest of his time like that.

If Matt folds in on himself later, pulling the sweater’s sleeves over his hands and treating it like a blanket, Noah doesn’t mention the way it makes his heart swell.

 

 

Saying Winnipeg is cold is like saying hell is hot, it’s just common sense. Noah doesn’t know the first thing about it, but he knows it gets bad, and it’s especially shitty in winter because, like—of course it is. This is Canada, he’s kinda getting used to it now.

So he isn’t sure why Matt hears that they’re heading out to Winnipeg and decides to come through in nothing more than a suitcase full of hair products and a few t-shirts. He doesn’t even pack himself a jacket, which might be the worst part. 

Noah doesn’t have to listen to his complaining, not really. Not until they’re supposed to be leaving for a team lunch and Matt peeks out the window, only to see flakes of snow drifting down from the clouds. It’s a pretty sight, Noah notes, looking out the curtains from over his shoulder, but Matt turns to him with a horrified look on his face. 

“What,” Noah asks, squinting at him, and he sits back down on the edge of his bed, pulling his shoes on. He’s got a jacket laid out across the rumpled sheets, because he’s not an idiot. Or because he trusts his common sense, whichever of the two. 

“Uh,” Matt presses his lips together, looking like he’s trying to think hard about how to put this. 

Noah rolls his eyes. “Don’t pop a vein, holy shit,” he says. “I don’t have an extra jacket for you.”

“No, look,” he holds his hands up defensively, “Just a hoodie would be fine. I’m desperate. _Please_.” 

“You keep doing this.”

“Doing _what_ ,” Matt says, like he’s that oblivious. Like he really wants Noah to say it. And, okay. Noah doesn’t mind Matt borrowing his stuff, teammates do it all the time, but it happens way too often between them for it to just be teammates. 

The worst part might be that Noah’s actually fine with seeing him in his things. It’s comforting all on its own, watching Matt cuddled up in one of his hoodies, but he’s not supposed to say that. He’s supposed to be difficult about this.

“Taking my shit,” Noah tells him lightly, because he’s not trying to twist this into an argument, but Matt still looks troubled.

“Are you expecting me to ask Johnny for one of his hoodies? Do you really wanna see that?”

“Are you calling Johnny short?” Noah asks, leafing through his bag just to pull out a hoodie. It’s the only one he packed, and it’s practically just a jersey with a hood. So, yeah, there’s no chance Matt’s hiding that he’s wearing Noah’s things.

Noah isn’t sure if he should feel bad about being fine with that.

“I didn’t say that,” Matt protests, and sputters a little when Noah whips his hoodie at him. 

“There,” he says. “Go wild.” 

“I’m always wild for number fifty-five.” Matt laughs, pulling it on over his head. Noah sees his curls puff out the top before anything else, and he hates the way it makes his heart hammer a little harder against his chest. Those are not welcomed feelings. 

To make matters a little worse, when they see a few of the guys in the lobby, Matt fakes a yawn, stretching his arms over his head. The _Hanifin_ printed across his back is blindly clear, and Noah feels the tips of his ears heating up as he hears one of the guys whistle. 

There’s not a lot left to imagination when someone walks out of their shared hotel room in their roomie’s attire, especially when it’s this often. So, yeah, Noah tries his best to keep his head down and pull Matt _away_ from the attention.

 

 

Noah walks into Matt’s kitchen with sleep heavy in his eyes and the sun shining in through his window. He squints, trying to block it out, and walks over to Matt’s coffee pitcher like muscle memory. It’s all one after the other, like every morning he’s spent at Matt’s place. He’s done it enough to know where everything is, but he really doesn’t need much else other than coffee. 

He pours it out into a mug, one that comes in the matching set of four that Matt’s got—one of which is sitting on the table next to him. He’s doing something on his phone, fingers flying over the screen, and there’s a half eaten granola bar tucked behind his cup.

“Hey,” Matt mumbles eventually, after setting his phone down, and when he looks over at him, something flashes over his face. It’s warm, soft, and Noah can feel it mirrored in his chest. “That’s—my sweater.” 

Noah’s practically swimming in it, it’s maybe a size or two too big on Matt, so Noah really wasn’t standing a chance when it came to actually fitting in it. But Noah likes the way it hangs from his chest, and it smells just like Matt. Wrapping him in this warmth and security, nothing but good vibes. 

“Yeah,” Noah says calmly, gingerly blowing at the steam leaking out over the top of his coffee cup. “It was in the guest room, and y’know. I like the Flames.” Noah shows off the 19 on his arm, and the smile Matt puts on is so fucking precious. 

“I get that,” he says sweetly, and takes a sip from his coffee. “I mean, you look great in it. Even if it doesn’t fit you.” 

“Why do you even own something this big?” Noah says, leaning against the counter. 

“It’s warm, I don’t _know_. Why are you wearing it?” Matt snipes back, but it’s not hostile. It’s calm, softened by the early morning hours. Plus, Matt’s gaze keeps dipping to his number, over and over and over. It makes Noah’s pulse jump. 

“I like it.” Noah lets a smile hang loosely from his lips, and he slides into the chair next to Matt, like every other time there’s been an open spot next to him. Muscle memory. 

Matt doesn’t say anything, which is new, but Noah appreciates him. He watches him study his face, watches Matt’s eyes dance across his expression, and Noah isn’t sure what to do. What to _say_. So he doesn’t say anything. It’s better this way. 

“You’re awful,” Matt laughs out, it sounds a whole lot quieter just between them. Noah isn’t sure he’d hear it if he wasn’t looking for it. But there’s something about Matt just pulls him in, roping him further into every aspect of him. So.

“I know,” Noah says, and he isn’t sure if he’s imagining the way Matt’s a little closer now, or if he’s imagining the way he’s letting it happen. The idea of meeting him in the middle doesn’t sound so bad. Not like this, in a hazy morning somewhere in Calgary, locked up in Matt’s place with the sun warm against them.

“Good,” Matt whispers.

It’s alright. And it’s even better when Matt really does kiss him. All Noah can taste is coffee, the bitterness prominent on Matt’s lips, but he relishes in it. He reaches out, sliding his hands down the side of Matt’s arms like he could hold him there if he wanted to. As if, just like this, he could ask him to stay a little longer.

Noah kisses Matt because it’s all he wants, and when he pulls away, he feels dizzy. That same feeling he gets after scoring a goal, but so much _better_. So much more rewarding. 

Because here, he gets Matt’s breath slow and easy on his lips, and the tiny smile that lights up his face.

Here, Noah gets to go in for another one, and Matt lets him. 

His heart is pounding when he sits back, and seeing Matt holding his gaze with something hopeful etched into his features, something sweet, Noah knows that this really is perfect. That he’s just fine with having this. 

“I’m still gonna need that sweater back at some point,” Matt tells him, taking his coffee in hand to sip it again. Noah watches his lips and tries not to think about how soft they are. 

“You’re gonna have to fight it off me.”

Matt hums at him. “I’m fine with that,” he says, and Noah feels his face burn. 

Somewhere in Calgary, early in the morning with coffee steaming on the table next to them, things start to make sense. And Noah likes to think that’s all he needs.


End file.
